A Quote From Tallulah Bankhead

"Cocaine isn't habit forming. I should know - I've been using it for years."

Salutations, Andre

In his forthcoming book, eight time Grand Slam winner (and owner of the so-called "career slam" for winning the Australian Open, Wimbledon, French Open and US Open) Andre Agassi admits to using crystal meth "a lot" beginning in 1997, when his career was at its nadir. His story, which is being excerpted in The Times, contains the following confession of his first experience with the drug, which was supplied to him by his assistant, known as "Slim:"

"Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, snorts it. He cuts it again. I snort some. I ease back on the couch and consider the Rubicon I've just crossed. There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria that sweeps away every negative thought in my head. I've never felt so alive, so hopeful - and I've never felt such energy."

I don't care to engage in speculation about what effect the drug use had on his career as a tennis superstar, good or bad. It also doesn't bother me in the least that Agassi admitted to lying to the men's governing body, the ATP, to escape a ban. We addicts know that lying goes part and parcel with drug use in a society that unjustly criminalizes a victimless personal choice. What I think is important about Agassi's words is the way in which he so beautifully describes the conflicting feelings and emotions that are implicit in the drug experience. Also, he doesn't meekly and dishonestly shy away - as so many "reformed" writer-addicts do - from telling his audience about the positive aspects of the meth experience.

I always admired Agassi as a player. He had the complete game, the total package whether serving, on the baseline or coming to the net. His fitness was second to none during his triumphant resurgence of the late 1990's and early 2000's. His demeanor (during that resurgence) was always gentlemanly and humble, which was a nice counterpoint to the bad boy image of his early career. But now I have a new, perhaps more important reason to respect him: his intellect and personal expression. Not many great athletes could make the important contribution to society that Agassi has in sharing his experience.

A Quote From Ernest Hemingway

"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools."

- For Whom the Bell Tolls

Reno Renaissance

I finally made it out to Reno last weekend for a little gambling, drinking and general carousing with my brother. Although we usually stay at the Peppermill, which is on the outskirts, the town was packed and we had to make reservations at the Siena, which is located downtown on the Truckee River. (I can’t recommend the hotel due to the surliness of John, a bitter front desk assistant.) We took advantage of our location and spent a great deal of time walking around, bar hopping and checking out the many new businesses, civic parks and “Riverwalk” district. To say the least, the condition of the city is a revelation.

Old school Reno has always been a favorite of mine. I’ve enjoyed the brutal conditions of the downtown area for as long as I can remember: the bums, lowlifes, hustlers, prostitutes, dilapidated hotel-casinos, four hundred dollar a month apartments, neglected streets and destitute bars. It sometimes struck me as hard to believe the place could exist in such a condition. However every time the city fathers or some new investor or developer tried to clean the place up Reno resisted, sticking to its anachronistic, myopic ways. And in this respect it always remained real, that much could be counted on. Now it may have been, to many people, really awful, a terrible place to take a family or a woman you were interested in sleeping with. But it was real.

Things are changing in downtown Reno. My brother observed that the place has improved by thirty percent in the last five years. And I think this estimation is just about right. There are less seedy characters and run down dives, more renovated condominiums and hotels, a whole slew of improved drinking and dining options and civic spaces that actually do the town proud. Also, there is a heavy police presence, which seems to keep everything in line.

We had consumed six or seven drinks and were just beginning to feel our groove when my brother suggested we go into “Doc Holidays,” a bar on East Second Street that I had somehow never been inside. “You’ll find plenty of characters in there,” he informed me. “This place is super run-down.” Upon entering, however, he was shocked to see that the whole interior had been renovated. The joint was actually respectable. It had flat screen televisions, an internet jukebox, historic photographs, a pool table with clean, fresh felt and respectable patrons. He was dumbfounded. Chris, the bartender, informed us sadly, “Everything’s changing around here. Pretty soon there’ll be none of the old Reno left.”

And of course this is the catch. “Progress” requires giving up the thing you had in the past. The vast majority of people wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing downtown Reno give up its squalidness. But there are many of us who love Reno the way it was and mostly still is, because it’s a singularity and its authenticity is beyond question. But the times they are a changin’. So my advice to you is get on up to Reno for a weekend. Drink ninety-nine cent well drinks at the Sands Regency. Eat $3.99 steak and eggs at the Cal-Neva. Smoke cigarettes indoors and marvel at how nobody complains. Because it may not last that much longer, and once it’s gone, it is truly gone for good.

World’s Strangest Addictions: Funerals

Many people are repelled by funerals; most of us do everything we can to ward off the very thought of death in our day to day lives. Of course, when a loved one or good friend passes, we honor them by holding a funeral or at the very least a memorial service to deal with the reality, remember them – hopefully fondly – and ultimately move on. However, there are not many of us that would seek out funerals to attend. But there are a select few that do so compulsively.

My research has not yet revealed a clinical term for this strange addiction, but I have been able to retrieve at least one example of an individual “suffering” with this condition. Brazilian man Luis Squarisi, aged 42, from Batatais is said to have attended every single funeral that has occurred in his town for the last twenty years. He even quit his job in order to devote all of his time to this pursuit.

He told a Brazilian television station, "The first thing I do every morning is to turn on the radio to find out if anyone has died, if I don't hear it on the radio I call the hospitals and the local funeral home."

One would think that this behavior would be utterly disturbing to his fellow townsfolk. Interestingly, the opposite is true. Sao Vicente, a representative for the local funeral home said, "We don’t want him to go to therapy, everyone expects to see him at the funerals. If he stopped coming he would be missed and lots of people would be disappointed. He is famous already."

Secret Stash

Wendy hadn’t used crank in more than ten years. She quit at age twenty when she dropped to eighty-five pounds from her normal weight of one twenty-five. She didn’t go to rehab; she didn’t seek professional help. She did sweat profusely and continuously in bed for ten mostly sleepless nights and then didn’t leave the house for the succeeding month while she ate her way through her mother’s kitchen regaining some of the precious pounds that had melted away after years of drug use. But she came through it all right in the end, moved on and never touched the stuff again. Years later she gave birth to Gwen, her beautiful baby girl. To all of us around her, she was a completely new person. Once, she told me that it felt like the whole experience, all those years of partying and running around, seemed like nothing more than a hazy dream involving a totally different person.

She recently moved from Seattle to Portland after a bitter divorce and was unpacking some things that she had brought with her. Box after box was opened and unloaded. Some of the things inside were a decade old or more. Memories flooded back to her as she examined old pictures, nick knacks and possessions from a lifetime. In one box, she found an old purse that she had once dearly loved. As she was looking it over she felt a lump in one of the inner partitions. She looked inside and unzipped the compartment.

To her astonishment, she found a cellophane bag which contained ten bindles of speed. Some of the drug had gone bad: it was lumpy from moisture that had crept in over the years. A couple of the bindles, however, contained perfectly intact powder ready for an instantaneous snort, smoke or shot.

“I couldn’t believe it,” she related. “Obviously, the stuff came from when I was dealing. I often had that much dope, but was usually selling the majority of it so that I could do my couple of grams. I simply don’t know how I could have forgotten it. I must have been really high.”

No doubt. And I reflect with wonderment and curiosity at the strange story of those ten little bindles traveling with her wherever she went, by her side, unknown, unwitting companions, a tiny, powdery, illicit piece of her history, tangible even though the past from whence they came had dissipated into the ephemeral yesterday.

A Quote From Winston Churchill

“Always remember that I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.”

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Burger Barn, Dunsmuir, California

There is no food that is more representative of American national culinary culture than the hamburger. Grilled, broiled, pan fried or steamed, with cheese or without, topped with pickles, onions, tomatoes and lettuce or nothing at all, thick and juicy or thin, pre packaged and well done, with ketchup, mustard, relish or mayonnaise: in all its thousand incarnations and variations, the hamburger is, quite simply, the food icon of our civilization.

I would never lightly recommend a burger joint. I’ve been steered toward mediocrity far too many times by well meaning individuals that had a burger one night when they were drunk and starving and mistook the rush of satiation for inherent quality. Also, I have probably eaten more hamburgers than any other person I know, and I think they’re all good. From greasy fast food establishments such as McDonalds, Jack in the Box and In ‘N Out to fancy Kobe sliders topped with foie gras and everything in between, I’ve tried them all. To say I’ve eaten a thousand hamburgers in my life would be to grossly underestimate my consumption. Therefore, I take into consideration my love of and need for these tasty, hand-held miracles of gastronomic delight before I ever think to recommend a certain burger to another person. The simple fact is they may not enjoy it in the same way I do.

But over the weekend, I encountered a place so special I had to proclaim its greatness publicly. On Saturday, still a little hung over and tired out from a long day’s hiking and fishing, some friends and I enjoyed the bounty of the Burger Barn, in “downtown” Dunsmuir, California. (On Interstate 5 approximately 49 miles north of Redding.)

The Burger Barn is one of those places that used to exist everywhere in America: the small town burger spot. Generally, these restaurants were one to a town and were run by a well liked local family who made their living feeding their neighbors after sporting events, on holidays, weekends and casual but special family occasions. As time marched on and fast food giants replaced Mom and Pop establishments, the Burger Barns of the world began to drop off one by one. Thank god this one is still here.

I spoke to the owner – a nice woman whose name I unfortunately cannot recall – while her husband was giving my mates some advice on the best spots in town to fish. She told me that she purchased the Barn from the previous owner, a man who had run it for thirty-five years. He taught her everything he knew. “And other than adding a few items, we haven’t really changed anything at all,” she informed me. This is the secret. They are making hamburgers at the Burger Barn in exactly the same way they were made in the late 1960’s.

My friends and I all had the same item: the double cheeseburger. Mine was topped with Swiss and also bacon, as well as the obligatory special sauce, which looked like thousand island dressing. The preparation and attention to detail were the cornerstones. Each patty had its own slice of cheese, which was fully melted and completely covered the juicy meat. Also, each layer had its own two bacon slices, which were crisscrossed on top of each patty. I hate when you get a bacon burger and the slices protrudes two inches from beyond the bun – you are forced to take a bite of only the bacon just to even the sides out. This is not a problem at the Burger Barn, where the bacon is thick but fits entirely within the bun. With every bite, there was some bacon involved. Delicious. Also, our group split a large fries and onion rings, which were more than enough for five of us. They were crispy and well cooked but left almost no grease at the bottom of the basket. How they accomplish this is a secret I don’t need to know.

I was very thirsty, so was drinking a coke. Two of my friends, however, got milkshakes. They nodded assent to one another while consuming them and one said, “Damn, this thing is thick.” A good sign. At the end of my meal, I was craving something sweet, so I got a soft serve swirl cone. It was made of real dairy and not the imitation crap they are serving all over nowadays. The perfect end to the perfect meal.

Bottom line: from now on, any time when I’m traveling north or south on I-5 I’m stopping in Dunsmuir at the Burger Barn. You should really do the same.

Bolivia's "Route 36"

La Paz, Bolivia
In what is believed to be the only business of its kind, Bolivian bar "Route 36" is a commercial lounge that openly serves cocaine in open CD cases to its patrons, a dispatch from London's "The Guardian" reports.

A near pure gram is sold for US $14, while a gram of the premium blend goes for $22. Well known to backpacking tourists, the bar has to change locations periodically, generally at the whim of bribed authorities.

One waiter at the bar recalled "We had some Australians; they stayed here for four days. (T)he only time they left was to go to the ATM."

World’s Strangest Addictions: Geophagy

Geophagy, also known as “pica” is defined as the obsessive eating of dirt. Practitioners of geophagy are often known by the name “nutters.” This practice in the western world is considered to be a sign of a mental disorder, though in many third world countries dirt is commonly consumed from necessity for its substantive and mineral value. In Hati, street vendors make and sell fried dirt pies, the soil creating a kind of dough or pancake.

Any nutters out there? I’d love to hear your story.

My Aversion to the Gym

Six months ago, I finally gave in. I had been touring local fitness centers for about a month, pricing them and checking out if I could ever see myself actually using these facilities. Generally, they ran from about seventy-five to a hundred and twenty dollars a month. No fucking way I was going to spend that kind of money every month on a place I knew would be loathsome to me. Finally, I alighted on a local public gym. It was unlike the 24 Hour Fitness or Club One. It was really basic, old school and kind of dingy, like an antiquated YMCA. It had a large basketball court – shooting hoops is one of the only “workout” activities I enjoy. And most importantly, it was only twenty-five bucks a month. So I decided I would give it a try. I could cancel any time, the lady at the front desk informed me.

For about three months I went pretty regularly, maybe three times a week. And then, of course, I fell off the fitness wagon and stopped going all together. I had been contemplating canceling my account, but it was on automatic billing and the first of the month came and went quickly. So yesterday I decided I would try yet again to get back into the swing of things. It was not easy.

Running around the basketball court, my lungs felt heavy and my legs felt weak. I persevered for about twenty minutes, but just wasn’t into it. I went into the room that had the cardio machines. Everywhere around me, seemingly healthy people worked out – the young girl with the tight ass pumping away on the Stairmaster, the fit septuagenarian man on the running machine, the forty-something guy reading his paper while easily riding the stationary cycle. His routine seemed the road of least resistance, so I chose the bike next to his, set it to medium, and began riding.

Seven minutes, thirty-six seconds passed and I had gone a mile and a half. My legs were burning and sweat was dripping off my brow. Good enough, I thought. The girl, the old dude, the newspaper man, were all still at their respective machines, working away. They were probably going to keep at it for another twenty minutes. I didn’t even go ten.

I went into the weight room and observed all the burly guys pumping iron. These are men who are truly in excellent physical condition, I thought, observing their bulging muscles and strenuous routines. They didn’t smoke cigarettes, blow rails or drink ten vodka-tonics in a night. Maybe some of them shot up steroids, though. I hit a few machines, worked the dumbbells and got out of there as quick as possible.

Finally, I was in the steam room: the one place where I can relax and kick back. My hands felt at my slightly bulging stomach: I had certainly put on weight in the last couple months. I knew I needed to be there but still didn’t like it.

I don’t want to be a slob or look bad. I take no pride in being out of shape and I intend to do something about it, as I have intended to do in the past. But I just can’t help feeling this difference between myself and other people at the gym. And I realize that this comes from inside me, not from others around me. Nobody can make me feel anything. I was an athlete in high school. I played varsity basketball for two years and was pretty damn good. I still play the game with a great deal of competence, even when I go up against the youngsters, teenagers who run like gazelles up and down the court, never needing a breather. I hit a baseball well at the batting cages; I play a solid game of touch football. So there’s no logical reason for me to feel strange at all about my physical abilities and in the context of playing sports I don’t. Yet the gym is an allergen to me and I really wonder why. Perhaps I’ll get to the root of the issue in the near future, as I am once again resigned to some kind of fitness regiment. After all, there has to be some time that can be put to good use between benders.

Wine Country Reprisals

On Sunday, I took a very pleasant excursion out to the town of Sonoma and the Sonoma wine country with Rick, as well as Patricia and Michelle, two friends of his from the Southeast out on a visit. We had a nice day lunching, touring the Mission, soldier’s barracks and home of General Vallejo, the last of which was surprisingly interesting. After this we took a spin out to Chateau St. Jean and did a wine tasting, which led to the purchase of an expensive magnum for a future dinner. All in all, the perfect afternoon. (And since the Forty-Niners didn’t show up against the Falcons yesterday, I missed nothing by not watching the game.)

As usual, however, I got to thinking about the absurd state of our DUI laws in this country, and the blatant hypocrisy that exists in our society. There we were, in the heart of American wine country, with wineries and tasting rooms separated by miles and nestled at the end of driveways hundreds of yards long, totally inaccessible except by automobile. And there I was, tasting my sampler of delicious wines from the purveyor, surrounded by dozens of other decent, hard working, law abiding citizens doing the same. And I couldn’t help but think that each of us was sticking his or her neck out pretty far in the pursuit of a healthy, happy Sunday afternoon.

I did the calculation in my head. How much wine did I have to drink? How long were we at the winery? And I realized that, in all likelihood, I was still well below .08% blood alcohol content and could drive without excessive fear of police reprisal. (I could not, however, drive completely confident, as even being below .08% BAC does not totally shield me from the law; I could still be charged with a PC 23152(a) DUI or a PC 23103.5, better known as the "wet and reckless.") But could everyone leaving the winery drive with my relative confidence? How many .09% or .10% drivers were leaving the winery that day? And even though they were driving in a state made illegal by legislation, were they truly unsafe to drive? I think not. I believe these people were perfectly safe, and I have no substantial fear in sharing the roads with them, day or night.

So what do I think we should do? I’m certainly not advocating drunk driving, despite my many posts on this topic. I accept the proposition that truly drunk drivers should be punished according to the law if they are caught and proven guilty. However, it is extremely vexing to think that a glass or two of wine makes me an offender of the law and an enemy of the State. I think of Italian Minister of Agriculture Luca Zaia and his comments on this subject, on which I wrote in September. Ultimately, I believe this: we should roll the legal blood alcohol content back to .10%. This is the level that the law recognized for many years as acceptable, before biased, politically powerful groups like Mothers Against Drunk Driving bullied legislators into submission. At least if we do this, we will provide some breathing room for responsible drivers who do not wish to become criminals.

When we returned from Kenwood to the Sonoma square we were walking around, touring the shops when we saw a woman on the sidewalk flanked by two police officers, doing the roadside two-step. Her balance was pretty good but her face was flushed and a little droopy.

“She’s done for,” I said to the group. “I don’t even know why they bother with those field sobriety tests anymore.”

We walked around the block and came back just as the cops were cuffing her and leading her to the police cruiser. And I don’t know if she deserved it or not. It’s not my place here to determine the judgment of the officers on the scene. But it was such a coincidence to see this event first hand, after having just returned from my drink and having mused on the topic only minutes earlier.

A Quote from Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."

Bus Ride

There is nothing quite like riding the bus when you want to experience and get to know the true residents of a particular area. And when I say “true” I mean, of course, the lower level, economically depressed denizens who deal with tangible problems of basic survival on a day to day basis, people for whom mac and cheese and hot dogs is a good meal, folks who regularly drink Natural Light and aren’t in college, people who smoke GPC cigarettes. These, of course, occupy the bus in droves. But there are others too: intellectuals, greenies, adolescents, municipal employees with good jobs and transit tax deals who also ride the bus and make it a diverse, interesting environment for observing the human condition in action. It’s also a great place to get into a conversation. I’ve learned more random things on the bus than possibly anywhere else. Whether they’re all true or not…that’s a discussion for another time.

I won’t lie and say I ride the bus when I have any other option, because I don’t. But I do find myself on my local municipal lines ten or fifteen days out of the year. And while this is not a great investment of time, I do value these moments and am glad to experience them when I do. Every difficulty in life does indeed present an opportunity.

So yesterday I was coming back from dropping my car off at a fairly distant shop. I had to take one line then transfer to another to get to my town. On the second leg of my journey, I overheard a conversation that I will share with you here. It is a shining example of superstition, drug culture ethic and the brotherhood of those who have a little less leading to a moment of crystalline beauty. I shall do my best to recreate it faithfully and accurately.

Two white guys were sitting in the very back of the bus. One of the dudes must have been close to my age – mid thirties or so. He was pretty grizzled but had an optimistic tone to his voice. The other was younger, perhaps mid twenties. He had a mullet and a goatee. I thought mullets had gone the way of the dodo. Anyway, they got to talking.

“Yup,” was the first thing I heard from the older guy. The word popped off his tongue. “I was involved in a pretty nice harvest out there on the coast near Jenner.”

“That’s south Sonoma County, right?” inquired younger.

“You got it. I worked a plot of fifty six footers. They had cola’s on ‘em the size of my forearm, man. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Good deal. You make decent dough?”

“I did all right. Four grand for the months work – I was only involved during the last stage. But that was all cash. On top of that, they gave me a quarter pound of the best shit. And during that time, I didn’t spend a cent. They provided everything. Three square meals a day and all the beer I could drink. Man, it was sweet.”

“Sounds good.”

“Was it ever. But you know, I owed a little money around town and by the end of this week I was already down to two grand. And my baby and her mama are living at my Mom’s place. We’re trying to get a place of our own, but it’s tough. And two grand wasn’t going to last us any amount of time. So I put a G on the Forty Niners with my bookie to cover the spread against the Rams. And they won 35 to nothin’. So I parlayed that money and put it on the Vikings to win straight up against the Packers and I won again. My bookie paid me the next day. So here I am, right back with four grand.”

“No shit,” the younger said, obviously impressed. “I knew the Niners were gonna kick butt.”

“Easy money,” older replied, “any fool knew how that game was gonna go.”

“I need to hang out with you, man. Maybe you can get me some work or something.”

“Well, the harvest is almost over. But let me write down my name and number anyway. You got a pen?”

Younger produced a pen from his jacket.

“Here you go. And hey, have lunch on me today, brother,” older said, presenting the guy a bill. It must have been either a twenty or a ten, but I couldn’t tell, as I was only looking out of the corner of my eye.”

“Hey bro, no…you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s only bullshit money. It’ll be gone tomorrow. Anyway, I’m tryin’ to pump my luck. With me, there’s no middle. It’s either all good or all terrible. You’re helping my karma.”

“Hey, right on man. Thanks.”

The bus was nearing my stop. But the story was not yet over.

“Hey brother, I get off at the stop after next. Take this for yerself and give it a try. I know you’ll like it.” Older handed younger a nice little bag of weed, what I would normally view as a “twenty sack.”

“Jesus,” younger said, awestruck. “This must be my lucky day.”

“My lucky month,” older replied.

I got off at the stop nearest my office. My spine tingled with the joy of bearing witness to such an event and knowing I would be able to share it with you here. Part of me wants to break it all down and analyze it. But I’ll refrain from doing that. The story speaks for itself.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Hard Eight (1996)

Starring: John C. Riley, Phillip Baker Hall, Gwyneth Paltrow, Samuel L. Jackson

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson

John needs six thousand dollars to bury his dead mother. When he meets Sydney, he is slumped against the outer wall of a seemingly ubiquitous diner somewhere between Las Vegas and Reno. Sydney offers him coffee and a cigarette. John reluctantly agrees, not knowing at first how to react to the kindness of strangers. When Sydney is informed that John is broke and has few prospects of earning money, he offers to teach the younger man what he knows. Which, it turns out, is how to get a free room and meal, how to scratch out a comfortable living as a professional gambler. But he makes it clear that he does not have six thousand dollars to give. Having no other options, John agrees to give it a try. “It’s always good to meet a new friend,” Sydney says sincerely.

So opens one of the great gambling films of the 1990’s. For a movie that generally flies under the radar, the cast of characters is frankly astounding. John C. Riley gives a perfectly flawed performance as “John,” always misusing words and phrases at just the right time to expose his character’s weakness. Philip Baker Hall gives an almost career-defining performance as the tough but generous and honest “Sydney.” Gwyneth Paltrow shimmers as “Clementine,” a waitress and sometimes prostitute. Samuel L. Jackson brings a charged performance in the portrayal of “Jimmy,” an egocentric scam artist, gambler and would be dangerous dude. Even Philip Seymour Hoffman makes a brilliant cameo as a loudmouth drunk at the craps table.

Sydney does teach John the ropes of how to make a living as a professional gambler, and the funeral is held somehow. Two years go by and the duo are still together, skulking around Reno’s casino-hotels, angling for comps, skimming the percentages. Clementine tells Sydney in the bar one day, “I see the way John follows you around and worships you, like you’re his captain.” And indeed it’s true.

But why is Sydney doing this, we wonder? He clearly has nothing to gain, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who gives away his trade secrets for free. As the story goes on, John and Clementine fall in love. Where will it lead? And what does Jimmy know about Atlantic City anyway? The answer just might cost Sydney six thousand dollars after all. Then again, every gamble contains the possibility of victory.

Directed by P.T. Anderson, (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) and containing an excellent musical score, Hard Eight is one of those movies where, at the end, you will feel enriched but not know exactly why, at least not on the first go around. I believe this reaction has three foundations. First, the story is pure, unadorned with superfluities that distract the viewer from focusing on the journey. Second, the acting is simply first rate: raw and honest, practiced but not polished. Finally, Hard Eight, while well known to cinema cognoscenti, was a real sleeper. The first time I saw it, I felt like I was in on a great little secret that only a few people knew about.

Well, I don’t know if the word’s already out. Either way, you should definitely see this film.

Addict Recommends: (Literature) Poker: A Guaranteed Income for Life (1968) by Frank R. Wallace

There are a thousand books about poker. Almost all teach the dry theory of the game. Whether the game is stud, draw, hold ‘em or crazy pineapple, these books focus almost exclusively on the odds and strategy, the universe that exists within the four corners of the table. They focus on esoteric knowledge that only a few will ever practically apply, and they teach us little about human nature or ourselves.

But there is one book that is absolutely different. Poker: A Guaranteed Income for Life (by using the Advanced Concepts of Poker) by Frank R. Wallace (which is actually the pen name for Dr. Wallace Ward) is the very best book on the game that I have ever read, and possibly the best that will ever be written. Mr. Wallace (I am going to refer to him as such here) was not only a master of psycho-poker strategy, but a publisher, mail order magnate, infamous federal tax evader, successful Supreme Court litigant and founder of Neo-Tech philosophy. While I am only superficially familiar with Mr. Wallace’s many other achievements, this book is one I have studied carefully and regard as one of the great anti-addict treatises of all time.

The book teaches you almost nothing about poker. It assumes the reader already has a reasonably strong grasp of the game. Instead, the text focuses on the theory behind the table, the infinite intricacies of human nature that create the winning or losing player, and the way in which the individual can shape his or her own nature and manipulate others so that he or she can create a winning environment. It is much more than a book about a game. It is a book about human weakness and vice, and how to exploit these character flaws to your own advantage.

“Luck is a mystical illusion that does not exist in reality,” the author writes in a footnote on page 2. This is the essential basis for the whole book, which is broken down into chapters such as, “Tailor Made Game,” “Behavior,” “Cheaters,” and “Exploitation” to name but a few.

The thing that sets this book apart and makes it entertaining is the fact that each section is broken down into two parts. First, the author discusses the particular theory he is espousing. Then, through creative fiction, he illustrates these theories. Wallace creates a game filled with characters that represent several player types. “John Finn” is the guy applying the author’s theories, and therefore the big winner and manipulator of the game. “Quintin Merck” is the solid but too tight player who can be easily offended. “Scotty Nichols” is the guy with the inferiority complex. “Sid Bennett” is a card cheat. “Ted Fehr” is the compulsive gambler.

There are so many humorous and insightful passages contained in this book it is hard to choose just one to illustrate the overall astuteness of the work. But the following passage is, I believe, one of the best:

Professor Merck subconsciously suspects Sid of cheating. One night, Sid cheats him out of a $700 pot. After sitting in silence for several hands, Quintin suddenly leaves without a word and slams the front door…Knowing that Quintin detected Sid’s cheating and fearful that he might tell others, John pursues him out the door. Quintin stops under the streetlamp when he sees John approaching. For a moment, neither say a word.

“You saw it too?” Quintin asks with squinting green eyes.

“I see it every game.”

“Why haven’t you said something?” Quintin half shouts. “He should’ve been bounced from the game.”

“Who’s the biggest loser in the game?” John snaps. “It’s Sid. And you’re a big winner. In the past couple years, you’ve taken Sid for thousands of dollars. Sure he’s cheated you, me and everyone else out of pots. What if we’d thrown him out two years ago? We’d have done him a forty thousand dollar favor.”

Quintin’s mouth opens; he scratches his moustache.

“Sid’s a cheater and deserves to be punished,” John continues. “The best way to punish him is to let him play. We only hurt ourselves by bouncing him out of the game.”

Obviously, this passage reflects a cynicism and callous opportunism that many people may find offensive. And don’t get me wrong: I’m not suggesting that I’ve directly applied the principals of this book to my game or life. I’m no John Finn. If anyone, I’m a Ted Fehr, who is the worst player, a junkie. However, this work is extremely valuable on a number of different plains. By reading it, you could learn how to create, manipulate and take advantage of people at the poker table, and thereby make yourself a better player. Or you could expand this book into the greater lesson the author is really trying to teach you and practice manipulation, moral relativism and opportunism in the greater game of life. Finally – and this is the lesson I take from this great work and the lesson I hope you will also take from it – you can learn in a very unique way how cynicism, callousness, opportunism, deception, manipulation and greed form the basis for almost every interaction you engage in while you move about in the world. If you are an addict, even a functioning one, you are more susceptible to these pitfalls than most. Reading this book may help you avoid one or two of them in the future. And it can help you to know yourself more honestly and completely.

A Quote From Friedrich Nietzsche

"...at the very bottom of my soul I feel grateful to all my misery and bouts of sickness and everything about me that is imperfect..."